


Tact-Checking

by Hystaracal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humour, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 10:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19944784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hystaracal/pseuds/Hystaracal
Summary: It took Draco Malfoy five years of semi-competent adulthood to realise that not every disparaging thought needed to be verbalised.





	Tact-Checking

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know. I promise that Détraquée update will be here soon(ish), okay? But this silly oneshot came to me while I was stuck in traffic, so...  
> Hope you enjoy it!

When Draco Malfoy was eight years old, his mother remarked that his brash nature was more characteristic of lions than snakes. For you see, every true Slytherin was born with an innate understanding of diplomacy (of the Machiavellian variety) and basic political acumen.

Both Draco and his father didn't speak to her for an entire week after that.

But alas, disturbed as he was by that assertion, Draco could not summon the will power – or indeed the inclination – to think before he spoke. _Words have power_ : That much he understood, and he thoroughly enjoyed the devastating impact his rather cutting phraseology had on people.

  
At nine he told Crabbe and Goyle that they were irredeemable twits who would never amount to anything, and that being his lackeys was the most respectable accomplishment they could hope to achieve. At ten he told Pansy that if he squinted she was almost pretty, but not nearly as pretty as Daphne.  
From ages eleven to sixteen, he spent a good portion of his time letting out unfettered streams of vitriol against all those he deemed inferior. His housemates thought he was the King Of Wit; girls thought he was dangerous in all sorts of exciting ways... it was a Charmed Life. A life that he was sure would carry him to terrific heights. He’d be the cherry on top of the cream of society – rolling in silk sheets and money while putting the Potters and Weasleys and Mudbloods of the world in their rightful place.

But then his Charmed Life was infiltrated by the hideous and skeletal embodiment of true evil, and it was _Draco_ who was being put in place... again and again and again.  
Nothing like the fear of death – and facing death and being unable to cause death – to put things in perspective. It’s impossible to have so many close encounters with the great equaliser without realising that everyone is, in fact, equal.  
The Draco Malfoy that emerged at the end of the war was a more sombre and reflective version of the old. He could summon respect for others without feeling a part of him die.

Yet – and for this he was actually thankful – the spark of mischief in him hadn’t withered away. As the raw sores of war scabbed over, he found himself hurling more and more zippy lines with a smirk that wasn’t forced and an alacrity that was enlivening. He made his friends laugh. One time, he made Pansy cry.  
(And he apologised for that, all right? Calm down.)   
He mucked up four job interviews. (To be fair, those prospective employers were colossal idiots and they were simply _begging_ to be cut down to size.)

  
It took him five years to build an intricate obstacle course between his brain’s immediate response centre and his voice box. He labelled that track ‘ _the path of consideration’_.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a summarised version of how Draco Malfoy learned to exercise restraint and discovered the art of _considered speech._ At the age of twenty-two, he was the unimpeachable King Of Tact.  
Why, just a few days ago, Theo had paraded in front of him in the most ghastly purple, tartan robes and asked him what he thought. Draco had **not** said: _You look like the secret lovechild of Dumbledore and McGonagall._

He’d said: “It looks all right.”

(Of course, Theo had gone on to insist he be honest, as in – “Go on, Draco... tell us what you _really_ think” – after which Draco had been dutifully frank. That’s how he got a bruise on the beautiful ivory skin of his shoulder: Theo had thrown a snitch-shaped paperweight at him.)

And on that note, we proceed to demonstrate how he approached his day-to-day activities:

It was his faultless tact that led him to thank his House-Elf for making his bed in the morning. It made him smile warmly at his mother when he encountered her on the way to breakfast. She was contemplating an immense floral arrangement with acute seriousness and she asked him if he thought it was a well balanced display.  
He **didn’t** say: _Bugger that, I couldn’t care less_.

He said: “It’s beautiful, mother. Of course it is. Your handiwork, after all.” 

She beamed at him, while cooing and patting his arm in that oppressively sweet manner of hers. She’d always exhibited tenderness towards him, but it had reached a remarkable level after the war.  
Draco made a hasty escape, mumbling about how hungry he was. He marched to the parlour for breakfast, nodding politely at his painted ancestors. He **did not** tell his Great-Grandfather Septimus that the wart on his nose was repulsive.

He found his father already seated at the table, reading the morning’s Prophet with a cup of tea at hand. His back was straight, his long silver hair was perfect and tied back with a silken ribbon, the collar of his deep blue morning robes was ruffled, and his polished, gleaming silver-tipped cane hovered placidly by his chair.  
Draco **did not** say: _Gosh, every day you seem more like a caricature of ludicrous aristocratic foppery._

He said: “Good morning, father. You look well.”

His father grunted in that sullen, taciturn manner _he’d_ adopted since the end of the war: A complete antonym of his mother. It was no surprise that they basically hated each other by then.  
Draco helped himself to some tea and requested his usual spread of scrambled eggs and toast when approached by a House-Elf. He employed the words _please_ and _thank you_ to outstanding effect. (Over the top of the newspaper, he saw his father sneer.)

He ate in silence, while gazing out the large window by the table. Chewing and gazing was his daily dose of meditation, which helped fortify him for the rest of the day. He used the time to lay out his mental hurdles. It was much like Occlumency, if you really thought about it; just that instead of a blockade, he was constructing a twisty-turny channel.

After he had eaten, he exited the room **without** uttering the words: _Adieu, you miserable old bastard. Enjoy your bitter idleness._

He said: “Well, I’m off to work. Hope you have a pleasant day, father.”

His father grunted dismissively.

Draco thought about his job as he whirled through the floo network.  
He liked his job. He didn’t mind the long, trying hours, he didn’t mind the self-important rhinoceros that he had to call ‘boss’, and he didn’t mind that he had to share his tiny little hole of an office with another person. The Department for the Removal of Curses, Jinxes, and Hexes was the one branch where his sordid affair with the Vanishing cabinet earned him a point. He enjoyed charging in to save the day, sorting out messes with a flick of his wand...  
And he particularly enjoyed the occasions where he was confronted with a mystery spell. The challenge involved in undoing _those_ was truly exhilarating.  
Spat out into the Ministry atrium with a _whoosh_ , Draco commenced the journey towards his work-nook taking long strides. He nodded politely at faces he recognised, and muttered a _hullo_ , or a _good morning_ at people whose names he remembered. He grinned at the drab young thing who operated the lifts.  
Her responding grimace was sour and stupid. Nothing new.

Much to his tragic dismay, he walked into a lift that already contained a person. This person had awful, messy black hair, and preposterous round glasses and Draco **did not** say the first word that popped into his head, (namely: _Twat_.)

He said: “Potter.” 

Potter replied, “Alright, Malfoy?”  
“Very well, thanks,” Draco said crisply, “What about you? And your lovely wife...?”  
Potter pressed his lips together as though he was trying desperately to keep from laughing.  
“Yes, yes,” he mumbled, (a chuckle escaped between the two _yeses_ ,) “We’re both... well as well. Er, too. We’re well, too.”  
“Very well then.”

Draco did not let Potter’s blithering amusement get to him. He kept his eyes locked on the lift’s door, and the moment his floor was announced he leapt out. He **did not** embellish said leap with the words: _Pleasure to leave you as always, dickhead_.

He said: “Potter.”

“Malfoy.”

_Ding–!_ The doors closed behind him.

And the old, familiar corridor stretched out in front of him. Suddenly, he couldn’t get to his office soon enough. His heart pounded with every step he took; the faster he walked, the louder it thundered. There was a litany of _Ah, gosh, damn it, Merlin, etc,_ sounding off in his head, but he **did not** vocalise it.

A scrawny chap behind a tower of parchment rushed by him and he said: “Easy there, Creevey!”

Three paces away from his pigeonhole, Draco stopped. The door was mostly closed, but kept ajar just enough so a sliver of golden light shone through like something glorious and mythical. He squared his shoulders, sucked in a deep breath, and took the necessary steps to push it open and walk inside.  
His interstice-cohabiter was bent over the bottom drawer of their cabinet, rifling through documents in an agitated manner. For a moment or two, Draco just watched... mesmerised. He **did not** say: _Will you please, please, please, please let me throw you on a bed and ravish you?_

He said: “Good lord, Granger! What on earth happened to your hair?”

She straightened with a slight jump and a not-so-slight scowl. The motion caused her immense cloud of hair to rise and fall, and she really was absolutely glorious and mythical.

“It’s in a mood,” she snapped gruffly.   
“As are you, it seems,” Draco noted with a grin as he settled behind his desk. (A desk no bigger than those stupid tiny things they had in classrooms at Hogwarts.) He blew his fringe away from his brow and continued, “What are you rummaging around in there for?”  
“You remember the case of the giant multiplying mushrooms?”  
“Hydra-shrooms? Of course. Vividly.”  
“Well, Rheinholdt has suddenly decided he wants the report. It was a year ago! How am I supposed to find–”  
“Bloody Rhino. But perhaps if you had let _me_ organise the cabinet–”  
“I have a system!” Granger trilled, elbow deep in the drawer.  
“Clearly,” Draco drawled. He **did not** say: _Keep bending like that and you’re going to make me lose my mind._

So lost was he in the flow and curve of her venerable posterior, that he didn’t notice when his boss plodded into the room. Which was _quite_ something, considering that man was massive, the space was tiny, and when put together, the effect was astonishing. Draco started when Rhino cleared his throat; but not a second later, he was able to muster a smile. He **did not** exclaim: _Begone, you unseemly Brobdingnagian_ _horror show!_

He said: “Good morning, Mr. Rheinholdt. What can we do for you?”

Draco was ignored. Rhino turned his misshapen head towards Granger and droned, “Do you have the report?”  
“Yes, sir,” Granger gasped.  
Her hair was worse than ever. She waded through mountains of parchment, tripped over her own bag that she’d discarded on the floor, and just barely steadied herself by grabbing the edge of her desk. Draco **did not** tell her: _You’re ridiculous and adorable and I love you_.

He said: “Are you okay, Granger?”

“Fine,” she snapped. She thrust the necessary file out to Rhino, who flipped it open and regarded it with disdain.  
“Yes, I see. This will have to do, I suppose.” He snapped it shut and sneered at Granger. “I want a report on last week’s London Eye Rocket Spell incident by tomorrow, too. Malfoy, you do it.”  
Draco **did not** say: _Get bent_.

He said: “Of course. I’d be delighted to, sir.”

Granger glared at him, once they were alone again. Draco **didn’t** elaborate on the impact her direct gaze had on his heart.

He said: “What?”

“My report was perfectly adequate!”  
Draco grinned. “You mean like that cabinet is perfectly organised?”  
“Oh, shut up!”  
He tsk’ed.  
“What I don’t understand,” Granger went on, “Is how you’re _always_ so polite to him.”  
“Habit,” he shrugged.  
“I mean... _you_. _You_ are polite to him. It baffles the mind!”  
“Granger.” Draco levelled a serious look at her. “I’m polite to everyone.”  
“Hardly!” she scoffed.  
“Honestly. I am.”  
“No, you’re not. You’re Draco Malfoy. You’ve never been polite a day in your life!”  
“I’m the politest man in the building!”  
“You are not!”  
“I most certainly am!”  
“I’ve worked with you for over a year now, Malfoy! Surely I’d have noticed if _you_ were suddenly polite!”  
She was standing right in front of his desk with her hands on her hips and her chest heaving... eyes bright and wide...  
And Draco –

He just couldn’t handle –

Draco gripped the arms of his chair for self-control.

“Go on then,” he challenged in a low voice, “Ask around. I’ll bet you won’t find a single person who’ll refute my politeness.”   
For a while, she merely huffed and spluttered with disbelief. Then she threw her arms up in the air.   
“Fine!” she cried, “You know what... that’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ve had enough of this titchy little office anyway. Good bye!”

She flounced off, **before** Draco could say: _Ah, no! Don’t go!_  
He ended up whispering those words to himself, to a closed door, to a staggering ache in his chest...

For the rest of the morning, Draco worked on the godforsaken report. He dived in and out of a Pensieve, reliving that mad day when he and Granger had had to stop the London Eye from whizzing like a drunken billywig. It had been moments from spinning right off its axis when Granger had cast the most impressive freezing charm he’d ever seen. Draco **had not** said: _Wow! You are utterly magnificent._

He’d said: “Not bad.”

Then he’d gone on to make fun of Rhino while they helped traumatised people off the wheel and waited for the Obliviators.

He wished he _had_ told her she was magnificent. He wished he had shown her some of his excellent tactfulness. But for whatever reason, he didn’t want to censor himself in front of her. Because he made her laugh, and coerced prime sarcasm out of her in return; it felt wonderful and free in a way he simply didn’t experience with anyone else. Not ever.

Finally, at noon, he stood up and stretched. The bones in this wrists and back cracked.  
“Ugh,” he muttered under his breath.  
For a few minutes, he stared forlornly at the door, hoping that Granger would show up and join him for lunch as she sometimes did. They could walk together to the cafeteria and collect their respective mediocre Ministry-sanctioned sandwiches. They could sit at their usual corner table and talk about everything and nothing. And Draco would make a concerted effort to be courteous. He’d say all the pretty things he’d ever thought about her. He **would not** say all the filthy things he thought about her.  
However, she didn’t show up. Heavy with dejection, Draco set off on his own.

He bumped into Creevey again on his way out. The little gnat offered him a cheery smile and said, “Off to eat, Malfoy?”  
Draco **did not** bite back with a brusque: _Eat shit, you runt._

He said: “Yeah.”

His luck did not improve after he’d settled at a table with his ham and cheese sandwich. The bread was soggy. And then he was unceremoniously allotted the onerous company of Susan Bones. She bloody well just plopped down on the chair across from his.  
“Hi, Draco,” she beamed.  
Well shite, he’d asked her to call him that hadn’t he? He **did not** moan: _No no no no, go away go away go away!_

He said: “Hello Susan. You look charming as always.”

“Oh, you,” she tittered.  
And then she tittered again, and tittered some more. Draco nodded along vacantly and miserably, while bread turned into mush the moment it entered his mouth.  
“Did you hear that McLaggen got sacked?” she twittered, “ _Twelve_ counts of sexual harassment!”   
“Awful, awful business” Draco muttered.  
“And Jefferson asked Sheila to marry him! Right in the middle of a board meeting! Can you imagine?”  
“How thrilling.”

It went on in that manner for an extremely long time. Draco simply could not find a perfectly _tactful_ moment to excuse himself. After all, being abrupt was unheard of.  
Eventually, it was Susan who took leave. He breathed out heavily, savouring the heavenly silence that followed her departure.  
Discarding his half-eaten lunch in the bin, he shuffled back towards the lifts. He had to force no less than eight tight smiles, and one hearty handshake, (Ludo Bagman was not to be deterred.)

He met with _another_ blow in the lift.

Potter. Again.   
And this time accompanied by a lanky orangutan named Weasley.   
But Draco had a fairly decent (tacit) agreement with Weasley: If ever they found each other in a shared space, they stared in opposite directions till that dreadful moment passed.  
So, Draco said, “Potter,” ( **not** : _You again?!?!_ ) while gawking at the right wall of the lift.  
“Malfoy,” Potter replied, “Do you know that Hermione’s going around asking people if you’ve been polite to them?”  
“I am aware of that, yes.”  
“Do you know why?”  
“Yes. Apparently she finds it hard to believe that I can muster basic propriety on a regular basis.”  
“I see,” Potter said, “She asked me, too, by the way. I told her you are the epitome of civility.”  
“That’s a very kind thing to say, Potter. I thank you.”  
“You’re most welcome.”  
“Bah,” Weasley grumbled.

_Ding–!_

“Potter.”  
“Malfoy.”  
A nod, and Draco disembarked.

He loped towards his cubbyhole, met Creevey _again–_  
(“Had a good meal?”  
“Very refreshing, thanks.”)  
–Slunk in and –

“Oh. You’re back.”

Granger stepped around her desk and marched over to stand quite, quite close in front of him. He looked down at her long eyelashes and flushed skin and **almost** said: _My, you’re beautiful. May I touch you?_

“Yes, I’m back,” she spat.  
“And... well?”  
“It appears you _weren’t_ lying. The general impression around the Ministry is that you’re a very well mannered and delightful... _delightful!..._ young man.”  
“See, I told you–”  
“At first I thought it was a conspiracy. I thought they were having me on, all of them. Wouldn’t put it past you to orchestrate such a hoax.”  
“I would _never_ –”  
“Shut it! I _thought_ that was the case, until I spoke to Polly from the lifts. She’s too dull to be a part of any joke, even if she spent three years rehearsing.”  
Draco couldn’t help but laugh at her embittered delivery.  
“See! See!” she shrieked, “You laugh at her _now_ , but to her face you’re perfectly pleasant. You’re perfectly pleasant with everyone! Except _me_!”

Draco swallowed. She had embers in her eyes and determination in her stance. It was undoing him.

“Granger,” he murmured hoarsely, “Have I treated you _un_ pleasantly?”  
“I – well – not exactly!” she sputtered, “But you’ve hardly been cordial like you are with everybody else. You’re all... brittle and snarky... and you... _why?_ Why are you singling me out? I know it can’t be a blood-thing–”   
“What?! Of course not! Granger, you know I–”  
“Then what is it? Am I so low in your estimation that you can’t even offer me a fraction of the regard you so freely hand around to all and sundry?”  
“Look, I... that’s not...”

For once, both Draco’s mind and mouth were in complete accord. They were _both_ entirely bereft.

“Right,” Granger mumbled.  
Then she quietly left the room.

  
He turned and laid his palms on his desk, slumping forward and closing his eyes.

He rasped: “Bugger.”

One corner of his mind lit up with the phrase he foolishly **hadn’t** been able to say: _I like being myself with you._

“Bugger,” he sighed.  
He straightened resignedly, and began mindlessly tidying things around him. How about a shallow, physical sense of order when everything that mattered was a mess, eh?  
Not just a mess, though. Completely shambolic. He’d mucked it all up.

The door behind him opened and closed softly but rapidly. He wheeled around and saw that it was her again. And this time round she looked much softer than before. There was a warm, thoughtful look about her that was simply lovely.  
She stood with her back pressed against the door and watched him from under her eyelashes. Draco was once again without thought and speech.

“It occurred to me, that perhaps I got that entirely wrong,” she whispered, “Is that possible?”   
He nodded.   
“It occurred to me that... maybe you aren’t singling me out because you can’t be bothered to be nice to me. Maybe you just can’t be bothered to be _you_ , with all of them.”   
Draco **couldn’t** say: _Yes. Exactly. That’s it.  
_ “It occurred to me,” she pushed away from the door and came right up to him, winding her slender arms around his neck, “that maybe I’m special. Am I special, Malfoy?”   
_Yes! Gosh, yes. So special. The most special._

Did he say that? He hoped he’d said that. He really –

She kissed him. Long and sweet and he kissed her right back. Every single carefully constructed part of his mindscape melted. He was molten, inside and out, when they finally broke apart.   
And of course he _still_ couldn’t handle speech. _Huh._ He beamed.

She said: “Will you please, please, please, please throw me on a bed and ravish me?”

* * *

“...Will a desk do?”


End file.
